


Dean, Castiel, and Captain Jack Harkness walk into a bar...

by xenoamorist



Category: Supernatural, Torchwood
Genre: Angsty Undertones, Between Seasons/Series, Crossover, Flirting, Gen, Humor, Jealousy, M/M, Post-Children of Earth (Season 3)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-01
Updated: 2011-12-01
Packaged: 2017-10-28 07:51:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,717
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/305575
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xenoamorist/pseuds/xenoamorist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Castiel meets a certain Captain Jack Harkness at a bar. Dean gets jealous, but Jack is interested in Castiel for other reasons.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dean, Castiel, and Captain Jack Harkness walk into a bar...

**Author's Note:**

> Spoilers for _Children of Earth_. Beta'd by [jetaimerai](http://archiveofourown.org/users/jetaimerai), [kuridee](http://kuridee.livejournal.com/profile), and [plasmoids](http://plasmoids.livejournal.com/profile).
> 
> Mirrored on Livejournal: <http://momentane.livejournal.com/2215.html>
> 
> If you're interested in gratuitous Jack/Castiel porn, I've also written ["Bedroom Hymns"](http://archiveofourown.org/works/305563). :)

**11:24 PM  
OMAHA, NEBRASKA**

  
“All right, Cas, human lesson number three: how to order drinks from a bar.”

Dean smirks. They’re in some tiny bar on the edge of town—dark walls splattered with pictures of wild deer and of unfamiliar faces; country music playing in the background; low chatter punctuated by the sound of cans popping open. It’s nowhere near Dean’s ideal bar ( _that_ one would have more booze, more hot women, and more ‘80s rock), but it’s good enough, and it’s the closest one to their motel.

“Just go up and ask for a couple of beers. Slap down a few ones and don’t forget to grab the change. And _don’t_ —” He prods Castiel in the chest, his face stern. “—take any other offers. _Just_ beers.”

Castiel looks up at Dean and nods.

“Two beers. Nothing else.”

“Yep,” Dean says, giving Castiel a light push toward the bar. “Go get ‘em, tiger.”

Castiel looks back at Dean, who gives him a thumbs-up; reassured only slightly, Castiel squeezes past crowded tables and chairs to the bar, where he places his hands—one clutching the wad of bills Dean gave him—on the counter.

He clears his throat. The rasping sound barely stands out against the murmur of conversation, but it's enough to get the bartender's attention—she turns and looks at him; smiling, she drifts over and rests an elbow on the counter. Castiel peeps at the low cut of her shirt, then looks right back up, his cheeks slightly flushed as his heart beats a little faster.

“What can I get for you, sweetie?” she says, her voice sultry, her lips cherry-red. She trails her fingers along the counter and runs her eyes over Castiel, one eyebrow cocked.

Castiel takes a deep breath. “Two beers.”

“Sure you don’t want anything harder, hun?” the bartender says, glancing down as she says so. Castiel tilts his head and remembers Dean’s words—he’s not sure whether or not this constitutes an ‘offer’, but he decides to play it safe.

“Just two beers.” He puts on a smile and nods, then recalls what Sam has told him about being polite. “Please.”

“All right,” the bartender says, amused as she watches Castiel fidget with the bills. “Two beers, coming right up.”

As she grabs a couple of glasses and strides toward the taps, her hips swaying, Castiel sits on a barstool, his gaze fixated on a point on the wall across from him. He feels the slightest bit alone without Dean's guidance—but, he supposes, this is part of the learning process, and he cannot rely on Dean to be there all the time: after all, that was the whole reason why he asked Dean to help him with his “people skills”. After Castiel's bluntness had caused an older woman to scream in hysterics, grab Castiel by his collar, and toss him out of her house, Castiel and Dean had both decided that enough was enough.

Castiel’s eyes lock in on Dean. Dean’s attention is on another person now—a woman sitting at the table beside him, her skirt short, her long legs crossed. Judging by the way Dean is slouching and how relaxed his shoulders are, and by the grin splayed out across his face, Dean is having a good conversation with her.

“Nice trenchcoat.”

Castiel turns.

He remembers the 1940s—it is a hard time to forget, what with War wreaking havoc on Earth and demons running loose and possessing anyone they could find; it took the influence of dozens of angels and a mass of determined humans to stop them. The man beside him looks like he just stepped out of that time; his black militia coat, accented with gold, shows off his broad shoulders. He wears a dress shirt and slacks; Castiel catches a glimpse of suspenders underneath his coat.

“Technically, it’s an overcoat,” Castiel says, returning the stranger’s wandering gaze with a blank stare of his own. The man bites his lip, then smiles.

“Captain Jack Harkness.” The man extends his hand, his blue eyes twinkling. “And _who_ are _you_?”

“Castiel.” He glances down at Jack’s hand—rough and calloused—and wonders if he wants something from him. Jack waits for a few more seconds, then withdraws his hand, unfazed. He picks up his glass.

“‘Castiel,’” Jack says, tipping his head back and rolling the syllables on his tongue. “Not from around here, then?”

“I suppose not.”

“So what planet are you from, then?” Jack raises his glass, his lips curling into a grin. “Because _you_ —” He pauses, his grin spreading wider—“are out of this world.”

Castiel’s mouth remains set in a straight line.

“Heaven.” He pauses, then adds, “Although I suppose Heaven isn’t a planet per se; it’s more like another plane of existence.”

Jack raises an eyebrow.

“Well, you’re an angel if I’ve ever seen one,” he says, flashing Castiel another dazzling grin and winking.

Castiel blinks. He’s not quite sure why his heart is fluttering the way it is, but he ignores the feeling and replies: “Yes, actually.”

“Huh.” Castiel’s expression doesn’t change; Jack scrutinizes Castiel’s gaze and finds nothing but truth in his eyes. His lips move through a series of consonant shapes as he thinks, then settles on what he wants to say.

“Well, I suppose it’s not just blackness and nothingness after all.”

Jack looks away and takes a sip of his whiskey. He is no longer smiling; the lines of his face are harder now, and he suddenly looks more weathered, more tired. He savors the taste of his drink for a moment, letting it linger on his tongue before swallowing. His shoulders are hunched over; he furrows his brow, deep in thought, and then turns back to Castiel.

“So did you fall through a rift?” he says finally, watching Castiel’s every move.

Castiel cocks his head, wondering if he has again missed some sort of reference. “A rift?”

“Through space and time,” Jack says, his voice grave.

Castiel catches a motion just barely underneath his field of vision—Jack has one hand on his thigh now, fingers curled as he cups an invisible object underneath the thick fabric of his coat. The shape is familiar to Castiel.

“I came not through a rift, but descended directly from Heaven,” Castiel says, his eyes flitting back up to meet Jack’s. “This body is a vessel. A container to ease my communications with humans. And I assure you,” he says, his voice dropping to a murmur as he looks down and stares more pointedly at Jack’s hand, “that bullets cannot harm me.”

Jack moves his hand back up to the counter.

“If you’re an angel,” he says, his hand balled into a fist, his knuckles white, his voice barely above a whisper, “then tell me about Heaven.”

“I am not at liberty to reveal those details,” Castiel responds. Jack downs the rest of his whiskey and slams the glass back down on the counter with enough force to make the people around him jump and stare for a second. But Jack ignores all their stares, his whole body turned to Castiel, his attention fixed on him.

“And I suppose you can’t tell me the details about your precious God, then,” he hisses, his glare icy and accusing.

Castiel glares back with a fiery intensity, his shoulders hunching forward as he feels himself bristling. Even as Castiel glowers at Jack, Jack doesn’t back down—if anything, he narrows his eyes further, his gaze deathly cold.

“Do not speak ill of my father,” Castiel says, voice low and menacing.

Jack says nothing, his jaw set.

“Jack,” Castiel says, maintaining that same intensity, “Heaven is real, and your loved ones are there. I am an angel of the Lord; I have seen its wonders with my own eyes.”

Jack holds his glare for a few more seconds—and then his glare fades, as if the weight of Castiel’s words have finally sunk in. The tension dissipates from his body; he sinks an inch further into his seat as his eyes begin to glisten. He gulps.

Castiel speaks again, the pauses between his words long and heavy, his eyes unmoving, compelling Jack to heed every word: “Have faith.”

The bartender returns with Castiel’s beers; Castiel turns away from Jack, who looks down and blinks a few times. Castiel untangles a couple of bills and hands them to the bartender, his demeanor calm and collected; the bartender slides his change over to him, and he pockets it with a nod of acknowledgement.

A few moments of silence pass between them before Jack turns back to Castiel. A small smile touches his lips as the shadows fade from his face.

“You know,” he says after a half-second, “I’ve had an orgy with robots before— _not_ as unfeeling as people think they are, by the way—and I’ve gotten pretty creative with some aliens, but I can’t say I’ve ever tried anything with an angel.”

His smile widens as his voice gains momentum.

“Although I did once sleep with a half-eagle, half-man who really— _really_ —liked it when I stroked his feathers...” He smirks and looks Castiel up and down. “Got wings?”

“Most humans do not possess the capacity to see them,” Castiel responds. Jack reminds him of Dean—all bravado and masculinity, so quick to hide behind exciting tales and displays of confidence bordering on arrogance rather than admit any kind of feeling. Castiel glances over at his glass of beer—then lifts it and takes a sip. It tastes different, but not bad.

“Yeah? But would I see them if you showed me your true form?” Jack bites his lower lip hungrily as his eyes dart over Castiel’s coat, his tie—slightly askew—his dishevelled hair, the stubble on his chin— “I’ve seen some strange bodies in my time. I can handle it.”

“Most humans cannot gaze upon my true form without going blind.” He hesitates as images of burned eyes fill his mind and the sound of screams mingled with his own voice fill his ears. “Many perish.” He gives Jack an apologetic look, but Jack only laughs in response. He leans forward, resting his elbows on his thighs and folding his hands together; Castiel leans in as well.

“Death doesn’t scare me, angel.”

“Oy!”

Castiel and Jack both jerk their heads up to see Dean walking over to them, his hands balled into fists, his shoulders tense. His eyes blaze with an indignant rage, and his walk is filled with more swagger than usual. He squeezes between Castiel and Jack and slams his hands down on the bar.

“Back off,” he spits. Jack’s eyebrows shoot up; he shifts to the side and looks at Castiel.

“Is this your boyfriend?”

Castiel looks up at Dean, his brow furrowed. He is vaguely aware of the word, but a life comprised of hunts and cosmic orders have left him with little time to understand the intricate workings of human relationships and the names for these various relationships.

“He is certainly my friend, but I would hesitate to call him a boy.” He tilts his head, expecting an answer from Dean. “Dean, are you my... ‘boyfriend’?”

Dean whips his head back to glare at Castiel and parts his lips as if to speak, but no words come out. Flushing, he turns back to Jack and scowls.

“Fuck off.”

Jack raises his hands before him in mock surrender. “Whoa there, loverboy. I was just introducing myself.”

“Yeah, right,” Dean says, standing up straight and crossing his arms. He looks down at Jack over the tip of his nose. “And my name’s Malcom Young.”

“He speaks the truth,” Castiel says from behind Dean. He is fairly certain that Dean could not have forgotten his name in such a short span of time, so he chalks that up as another missed reference. “He told me his name, asked me about myself and where I’m from, and told me about some of his sexual exploits with other species.”

“He _what_?!”

Dean whirls around to stare at Castiel, who shrugs.

“Dude, that’s not okay!”

“They were pleasant, albeit immoral, stories,” Castiel says. “Is something wrong?”

“‘Is something wrong?’ _Cas!_ ” Dean leans forward and puts his hands on Castiel’s shoulders, his face less than a foot away from Castiel’s. “Look dude, you can’t just be all friendly with everyone!”

Jack’s lips curl into a smirk. “Nice ass,” he says, and Dean spins around again to face him.

“Jesus Christ!”

“Dean, I have told you not to take the Lord’s name in va—”

“Hey, I tell it like I see it,” Jack says. He flashes Dean a grin. “Ever had a threesome?”

Dean lets out a string of exasperated sounds, then grabs Castiel’s wrist.

“Cas, we’re leaving.”

Castiel tilts his head. Dean looks angry, and Castiel replays the past few minutes in his mind—he ordered the beers without any mishaps and even managed to strike up a successful conversation with a stranger that didn’t end with them being kicked out. Was he not learning how to blend in and interact with humans properly; wasn’t this what the both of them wanted?

“Why?”

“Don’t ask questions.”

Castiel lets Dean drag him away from Jack; Dean’s beer sits untouched on the counter. They ignore the looks of the other patrons whose eyes are glued to them—if he were more human, Castiel may have also found the sight of a grown man fuming and dragging away a confused-looking, overdressed man odd, but, being Cas, he does not find the situation strange at all.

When they are almost at the door, they hear a shout.

“Hey, Castiel!”

Dean and Castiel turn to see Jack running toward him, his coat billowing out behind him. Dean curses under his breath and instinctively steps forward, putting himself between Castiel and Jack.

“Look, buddy, I _told_ you to fuck off—”

“Castiel,” Jack says, pushing past Dean, who sputters. “If you ever see a man named Ianto Jones—about this tall, viciously Welsh, and probably wearing a perfectly-fitted suit and tie—can you tell him that I said hello? And that—” He looks away and takes a breath before continuing, “—that I love him, and—I’m sorry.”

Castiel takes one look at Jack and sees how Jack’s eyes have deepened in a way that he knows all too well: that chasm is in Sam’s eyes when he talks about Jess, in Dean’s eyes when he talks about his mother and his father. Jack is young, but too young—the way he carries himself suggests that he is older, that he has traveled far. There are weights bearing on his mind that Castiel does not envy.

He, too, is a warrior. The confusion on Castiel’s face fades, replaced by a tender look of forgiveness.

He understands.

“I will do my best.”

“Thank you,” Jack says. His smile doesn’t reach his eyes. Without another word, he returns to the bar and flags down the bartender for another drink. Dean’s shoulders relax, and an incomprehensible expression passes over his face.

They say nothing as they make their way back to the Impala, the late autumn air chilly and nipping at their skin. Castiel has learned that, when Dean is quiet, it means that he does not want to be interrupted. So he remains quiet as well; Dean starts the engine, and AC/DC’s _Back in Black_ fills the silence.

Dean finally says something as the motel comes into view. The road before them is dark, lit only by sparse streetlights; the burnt cream color of old fluorescent bulbs lighting the motel sign stands out against the night sky. There is a break in the music; Dean has the Impala’s steering wheel loosely gripped in his hands. When he speaks, he stares straight ahead.

“Everyone’s got their reasons for drinking alone.”

Castiel usually leaves when Dean is asleep, knowing that Dean prefers his privacy. But tonight, with Dean’s face solemn and somber as he prepares for bed, his movements slow, his limbs heavy, Castiel feels it is appropriate to stay. And so, as Dean’s breaths slow to a quiet and steady cadence under the covers, Castiel sits perched on a chair in the corner, shrouded by darkness, and waits for dawn to come.


End file.
